


Day By Day

by DR_Super_K_Lock



Category: Sherlock Holmes (Downey films), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, Sherlock Holmes is Tony Stark
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-25
Updated: 2016-12-28
Packaged: 2018-05-23 04:12:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,981
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6104530
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DR_Super_K_Lock/pseuds/DR_Super_K_Lock
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes has gotten himself into a bit of trouble. He's (accidentally) gained immortality and has no idea how to reverse it. As time passes and he watches people he knew well, age, die and pass him by, he eventually begins a new life; first as Isaac Stark and then as Anthony Stark. As Tony, he makes friends he comes to care for in ways he has not allowed himself for years. Then, he finds kinship in an enemy that ends up not only becoming his closest confidant but also, surprisingly, someone he finds himself loving beyond reason should strictly allow, but he's never been one to follow what is strictly reasonable before and does not see why he should start doing so now. It doesn't hurt either that Tony won't have to watch this Loki age and die and leave Tony for a place that he couldn't follow the trickster to.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Sherlock Can't Die

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The characters in Sherlock Holmes and Avengers(marvel universe) do not belong to me. These characters and world belong to their original creators and I am very grateful to use them to write this fanfic and hope you readers enjoy it.

     It had been an accident really and it really wasn’t something to worry about; and he wasn’t worried, not in the slightest, because even though the condition he was now in was a complete accident he would be able to get out of it. Every bad situation he had ever gotten into he had always managed to also get himself out of. There was no need to tell anyone of it; Watson was busy with the whole getting married business, Mycroft was busy doing his job and such fro Queen and country and Irene…. He didn’t need any help.  
   

  The ritual he had performed to better understand and the truths he had learned were all very prominent in his mind and he was sifting through it all as fast as he could and as thoroughly as he was able to find a solution to this predicament he had fallen upon. They were each discarded methodically and some, not a lot, were bookmarked because they were very likely to work, but he wasn’t a hundred percent sure it was exactly possible, partly because of how long it would take to obtain what was needed to do those ones. They would be used only if they were absolutely necessary.

     The discovery had occurred when he had been on the bridge with Blackwood and had gotten shot. In the heart. Blackwood had been too busy hanging on for his life to notice if his bullet had actually hit his mark.  
     

     It had hurt a lot and it had hurt for a long time afterward. The bullet had torn through his skin and tissue and bone into his beating heart. A few seconds later he should’ve been dead, but what happened instead was his body somehow pushed the bullet, a foreign object, out through the holes it had come through and everything had knitted himself back together. He had felt every second of it. Shock had kept him standing on his feet through the whole process and the shock from not dying kept him talking as the rope pulled Blackwood closer to a watery grave. Of course he had cut the man loose, but… call it the work of the Fates or God, Blackwood did hang in the end.

     And Sherlock Holmes couldn’t die.

     So, he spent months trying to find a way to reverse it and finding Moriarty was right beside it in importance. Until Moriarty became more important and he began to lose himself in the case. The whole magic and sphinx and not able to die thing was put on the back burner of his mind and instead he did his job.

  
     Days passed. And then weeks. Time passed and he got closer to Moriarty and at the same time, sometimes, Moriarty got a little farther away. Soon John was getting married and he was screwing up his best friends stag party and then it was morning and they were at the church and he was there. The henchman. And it was more than just him in danger, it was John and Mary too.  
    

      So, naturally, many stuff ensued that resulted with half the train blowing up. John didn’t have to be so angry about it though, he had timed it perfectly.

  
     The gypsy was eventually found and even though he warned John not to, John danced. With their new friends help they crossed the border and, as was inevitable, he came face to face with Moriarty again. It hurt to get stabled in the shoulder and it was a very odd and uncomfortable feeling of his shoulder trying to repair itself while the hooks still in it. Then the building collapsed and luckily he managed to get the red ledger before it did and his wound managed to heal itself way before Watson located him in the rubble. The blood had been quickly explained away as someone else’s and they got their way.

  
     After finding out Moriarty’s plan, he began forming his and thus, how they ended up at his brothers, Mycroft’s, house and planning for a party.

  
     He knew it would all work out in the end. He had taught Watson well and they had the man’s sister to help. The inside was fine, it was what was happening outside that had all of his attention; the game of chess against Moriarty. During the game, one that went from the board to their minds and quickly became right hooks and blocks, an opportunity presented itself that had to take.

  
     It was true, what Moriarty had shed light upon when they first met, Watson and Mary were in danger because of their association with him. Disappearing wasn’t good enough, it was only a delay, so he took the only other option.

  
     When Watson came out and locked eyes with him, he quickly closed his eyes and, tightening his grip on Moriarty, pushed them both overt the edge of the balcony.

  
     He killed Sherlock Holmes.

* * *

     After it all he probably should’ve completely disappeared and let the world forget about Sherlock Holmes, but he had never done what was expected, never done things the normal way, and he wasn’t about to start now. So he went back to England and purchased a box big enough for the small breathing device he had procured from his brother’s residence. He packaged it up and only sent it a few weeks after his own funeral—which was something he did not attend himself, it seemed like bad luck.

  
     Watson’s book wasn’t half bad and he enjoyed reading it very much so, but the ending? He didn’t very much like ending, so of course he had to add to it. A mystery was so much better than an ending after all.

  
     It was a few years later that Sherlock finally admitted he might need help with trying to reverse the whole not-able-to-die thing and so, he went to his brother. Luckily, Mycroft was in his England residence this time of year. Breaking in was ridiculously easy. He was going to have to talk to his brother about that.

  
     When Mycroft got back from doing whatever the man did, (he still wasn’t convinced Mycroft was as important as others said he was)he was in the study reading some documents he probably shouldn’t’ve been reading and enjoying a wine Mycroft had probably been saving for something special. He waited there for his brother to find him.

  
     The door opening made no sound, but he was aware of it all the same and also that Mycroft was frozen from the shock of seeing his supposedly dead brother alive. That was fine though, because he needed to finish reading this page.

  
     Soon the man recovered though, and, instead of saying anything, just walked over and settled into one of the chairs before the desk he had his legs propped up on. Mycroft set his cane against the arm of the chair, crossed his legs, set his elbows on the chair arms, laced his gingers together and studied his brother. There was silence for a while.

  
     “So you’re what happened to my personal breathing apparatus Shirley.” Mycroft said when he had set down the papers in his hands, “Stealing is illegal Shirley and terrible habit to get into.”

  
     He laughed and Mycroft schooled his features so they were bored and disapproving. There was no force capable of coercing the man to admit how much that sound was missed.

  
     “Mycroft if you didn’t want it stolen, you should’ve kept your eye on it. Or my fault it was so easy.”

  
     Mycroft Holmes as a patient man and knew how to play the game to get what he wanted, so he could keep the chatter going and steer Shirley to where he wanted the conversation to go, but… this, he needed to know why his brother was here. Mycroft would never say aloud how much he had missed the other and how starved he was for information surrounding him. It had taken incredible self-control to not send his agents out to find any evidence of Sherlock Holmes still being alive. Despite how crazy they mostly were Shirley’s actions always had a purpose to them.

  
     “Sherlock, why are you here?”

  
He stopped laughing; that was much quicker than he had expected, but one look at Mycroft and he understood. So he answered point-blank.

  
     “I need your help.”

  
      Mycroft’s eyes narrowed, “With a case?” Even when Shirley had been a little boy there had never been any requests for help with anything; the only one Shirley had ever asked for help from was Dr. John Watson.

  
     Covering his face, he tried to think of a delicate way to put it, “not exactly Mycroft.”

  
     Mycroft raised his eyebrows, this would be interesting.

* * *

     Of course, Mycroft was going to help him and, of course, the man understood perfectly why he wanted it reversed.

  
     So Mycroft proceeded to pick his brain about all these truths he had come across because of the magical ritual he had performed almost ten years ago. He had tried to convince the man that there was no need to take days off from his work, but Mycroft was convinced they would resolve this quickly. Then, as said by Mycroft exactly, “You would go back to your life and Dr. Watson can stop pestering me for information about you. And don’t even bring up that poor excuse about protecting them from your enemies Shirley I’m already taking care of that.”

  
     Instead of the easy solution though, what happened was that he went out for a walk to clear his head and a smoke to calm him down. He had only intended to be gone for an hour at the most, but by the time it occurred to him to go back, most of the day had gone by and almost full darkness had settled in.

  
     When he got back, what he found was less than favorable.

  
      There was a star of wax on the study’s floor and Mycroft was sitting on the couch under the window, drinking the fifty year scotch that he had tried to find when he broke in.

  
     There was a hole in his shirt slightly stained with blood, but no wound upon his older brother’s skin.

  
     “I thought recreating the whole process would reveal something you might’ve missed.”

  
     “You bloody idiot.”

  
     “Indeed.” Mycroft downed his full glass in one gulp.

* * *

      Eventually, Mycroft returned to his important duties—duties that he still wasn’t completely convinced were actual duties—and he stayed at the manor and perused the book he had taken from Blackwood’s father’s house. The more unsavory books of his brother’s collection were perused through too.

  
     He began to get itchy to move though, so he began to go on trips, sometimes disappearing for weeks before he returned to England or just to Mycroft’s manor. Sometimes, not often though, he gave into the urge to check in on Watson, to make sure the man was alright.

  
     The doctor was, of course. In fact, John Watson was happy and quite a successful author.

  
     He bought all the books as soon as they came out and had them all signed.

  
     Soon, he began to learn more about these magical arts that had been responsible for his condition and he was able to do other stuff.

  
     Like accidentally turn one of Mycroft’s suits into dust.

  
     No idea how that happened.

  
     When he tried to recreate the result, the suit shrunk instead.

  
     Before he could try again though, Mycroft returned home and immediately put a stop to all of it and forced him to listen to a two hour lecture on responsibility and blah-blah-blah.

  
     Then Mycroft tried it on Sherlock’s jacket.

  
     The years seemed to pass by fast and it became common for him to lose track of the days. He stopped checking up on Watson because it was becoming painful for him to see the doctor age. Mycroft and he never gained a day. He could heal from very fatal wounds and he, apparently, had stopped aging as well.

  
     He started going by the name Isaac Stark. Had a few affairs. Learned more about his new abilities and days were spent with him buried in books or tracking down a certain book. Sometimes he solves some cases that Mycroft had brought back from wherever he’s been. They were solved within a day, or a day and a half, depending on how much there were or the amount of evidence included. It was kind of a blessing he never had to leave the house to do all of this, scrying was a beautiful thing.

  
     He tries not to think about Watson. Or Lestrade. Or anybody from before. It gets easier as time goes on.

  
     Mycroft makes sure he eats and bathes and changes clothes and finds him if he’s disappeared for too long. Which takes longer and longer because he’s getting really good at avoiding Mycroft’s people.

  
     One morning though, after Mycroft had coaxed him away from the books and into an actual bed to sleep, he looked over at the bedside table seconds after waking and found a letter. There was note from his brother on top of it.

     ~Shirley,  
         My agents intercepted this letter for you. It’s from a woman in America who knows you as Isaac Stark. Don’t fret I didn’t read it and neither did any of my people.  
         Don’t forget to eat something and maybe spend some times outside; you’re turning into a ghost.~

      He crumped up the note and picked up the letter. The seal didn’t look tampered with, so Mycroft might’ve been telling the truth. The name on the back of the card is the one he’s been using while out and about and in disguise.

  
     He opens it. There’s one piece of paper inside only and he sort of doesn’t want to read it, but curiosity had always been a big part of who he was/is so he unfolds it and reads every word.

  
     ~Dear Isaac,  
         I will be brief about this and hope you take this seriously; during our time together I became pregnant and a few days ago I gave birth to a son. I gave him your name. I apologize for not informing you as soon as I found out, but I feared you pressure me to terminate the pregnancy. His name is Howard and he favors you in looks. If you wish to be a part of his raising my address is down below. I hold no grudge if you ignore this though.  
         I wish you all the best in your health and your life.  
                                                                                                                                             With regards,  
                                                                                                                                                        Molly Alker~

     What the hell?

* * *

     He chooses to ignore the letter, because, what in the bloody buggering hell would he do with a child?! Watch it grow old and die? He had never meant to become a parent and still intends never to be one. So he burns the letter and erases it from his mind. He doesn’t even remember a Molly Alker and never discusses it with Mycroft, when asked he tells the truth, he burned the letter. He also stops his dalliances with women; way too much trouble and not worth it. There had only ever been one who was.

     Twelve years later, he’s returned to his brothers manor in England, but is immediately told the man is in his vacation home out in the country, so that’s where he heads. He had been gone two years, searching for an almost thousand year old text that is supposed to contain a spell having to do with time. He hadn’t been able to locate it.

     Mycroft isn’t surprised when he arrives and tells him to come to the study when he’s settled in.

     There’s a letter on his pillow, unopened and addressed to one Isaac Stark.

     Inside the letter was a few pages of paper, and a few sentences into the three page letter he knows it’s from a lawyer and it has to do with Molly Alker and that the woman is dead. He stops reading after that, because his mind goes completely blank on why he should care that some American woman is dead. It takes a second, but as he reads on he remembers who she is. He letter goes on to explain how she had died from a long-term sickness and had left custody of the son she bore him to him, the father, but there were conditions to it. The one that stood out the most was the one that stated in order for custody to transfer to him he had to move to America. Until he did, Howard Stark remained in the custody of his grandparents. There was a time limit set for it: two years. There was an address of the grandparents included and contact information for the lawyer.

     The kid would be eight by now.

     He never wanted to raise a child and he never wanted to claim anywhere but England as his home, but… a thought that had often found its way wandering through his thoughts came right to the front. How much trouble h did he cause for Mycroft regularly because of the? How hard was it for him to resist the urge to go and check on Watson each day?

     How hard was it to be here?

     Somebody knocked on the door, jerking him from his thoughts.

     “Yes. Come in, what is it?” he answered quickly.

     The servant who opened the door he vaguely recognizes a, “Lord Mycroft is wondering when you will be able to join him in the study?”

     He folded the letter and put it back in the envelope, “Soon. I’ll be down momentarily.”

     “Of course, sir.” A bow and then the door closes.

     All he and his brother ever talked about when they were together now;, were possible reversal theories for their condition. He was sick of all the dead ends and mistakes that set him on fire( which to be fair had only happened twice—Mycroft had laughed after he had been put out and healed).

     There was really no point to thinking about the letter right then, it was time to check what Mycroft had.

* * *

     He never bothered to unpack his bags, so he just packs the letter ad quietly leaves when he knows for certain Mycroft is asleep. There’s no worry of Mycroft finding him or of his brother finding him because of the name he’ll be using. He had slipped a spell into Mycroft’s tea that evening that erased the name from the man’s mind. After thirty-eight years of practicing the craft he was pretty good at making potions. Mycroft had ended up developing skills that were more kinetic.

     A new start would be best.

     Months later he was an American citizen names Isaac Stark, a fruit vendor who had a son named Howard Stark. The job had been a conscious decision; he wanted to try not thinking for a while. The boy… his son… had his hair and eye color, but looked like his other when it came to his build and features. He had no idea what to do with the boy. So he began to teach him. He allowed the boy to go to school and learn on his own, but also tutored Howard when he was home because he saw that the classes were too slow for the young boy.

     Maybe the deadening his mind thing wasn’t exactly working.

     He kept a low profile and never saw any sign of Mycroft.

     Drinking became a common thing in his life, because it worked at the whole deadening his mind goal. It worked partially, the years passed in kind of a blur, but he was aware of Howard growing up and the boy’s feelings toward him, which were not positive. Then the boy went off to university and the months became a blur.

     Howard had graduated early from high school and was seventeen when he went to university. It was after his first year that Howard came back and asked for help on business related topics that they finally talked.

     Howard wanted to start a business and seemed to want his father’s advice. He was surprised to learn that his dad actually did know about starting and running a company. His father helped him get the business plan ready for Stark Industries, gave them some starter money(since when did Isaac Stark, a damn fruit vendor, make that much?) and then a year later went off to the UK

     Sometimes he wondered why the man ever came and claimed him in the first place all those years ago.

* * *

     It was hard, getting to England with the war, but not impossible. It seemed to be too soon that he found himself in the city where he grew up, where had so many adventures and made one very important friend who had come to see. It had been on his mind for a very long time to come and see the doctor.

     What had he been doing?

     What was he up to?

     Did he and Mary have any children? Grandchildren?

     Were they happy?

     That was a very important question; was John Watson happy?

     There was one other question, but he was doing everything in his power not to think it, because if he did and the answer wasn’t what he wanted it to be, then there would be pain. He had only felt pain like that once before and he wasn’t very keen on going through that again; every now and then there would be a pang, but they were far between.

     It took him half the day to locate Dr. John Watson and to learn the man was a widow going on three years. They had moved since he had last checked on them, but only the once. He recognized the house as soon as the address was said. He wasn’t sure how he was supposed to feel about it, but he certainly understood, he decided as he looked up the steps to the three-story house John and he had rented from Mrs. Hudson all those decades ago. Suppose the woman couldn’t last forever, although he had once been convinced the she was an avenging god waiting to exact her punishment on him.

     He had no clue how long he had been standing at the bottom of the steps lost in his memories, but it was long enough for the lone inhabitant of the house to have noticed him.

     “Mr.Holmes, get your late buggering stupid arse in here.”

     He startled and looked up, wide-eyed, at the man standing in the doorway. He leaned more heavily on the cane(the same one from all those years back) than he used to, but still stood tall and proud. The man had gained a little weight and his grey hair had receded a little, but not as much as he himself had once guessed it would.

     It was scary, looking at the wrinkles Watson had gained and how old he had gotten, but then he looked in his friend’s eyes.

     Those eyes, they were happy and bright and if it looked like tears were about to fall from them he ignored it, because Sherlock knew those eyes, he knew them very well. This was his best friend, his faithful companion though case after case, his doctor soldier.

     This was John Watson.

     “I had some things to do my good man.” He held up the basket in his hand, “I brought strawberries.”

     And thank all the gods both real and imagined, John laughed. The sound made Sherlock feel light and like no time had passed at all. Then John opened the door and waved inward with his cane.

     “Get the hell inside Sherlock.”

     Sherlock rushed to do exactly that.

     It was different inside, but looking around, he didn’t see the new paint and furnishings, all he really saw was a home he had surely missed and looking at John, Sherlock let the years melt away from the great man before him and all Sherlock saw was his greatest friend.

     “Watson, old boy, you’ve shaved.”

     John laughed again and rubbed the naked skin above his lip, “Yes, I have, and you’ve grown your hair.” Kind eyes smiled, not looking the least surprised to see that Sherlock hadn’t aged a day since the last time John had saw him, in 1892.

     “Sherlock.”

     “Yes?”

     “Share a drink with me, my friend.”

     At that moment Sherlock was pretty sure he would’ve jumped off a cliff if John had asked, as long as John continued to call him ‘friend’.

* * *

     Sherlock told John everything; the accidental immortality, the reason why he faked his death, Mycroft’s involvement in it all and about Howard. John took it all in stride, shaking his head fondly with exasperated sighs and telling Sherlock what an idiot he was. Not everything could be told in one day, thought he sure tried to do so.

     Soon it was getting dark and John had to go to bed. Tomorrow they would continue; and they did, this time with Sherlock listening as John told Sherlock all about his life with Mary. When he got to the part about the writing, Sherlock admitted to buying them, which made the other laugh and joke, “Well of course you bought them. Books describing how much of a genius Sherlock Holmes is are a must. I hope they lived up to your standards.”

     Sherlock didn’t say how proud he was of the doctor for writing them or how he had to buy each and every one because they showed him how Watson had viewed him and he needed to desperately believe that every word was true, he doesn't say how they're his favorite thing in the world or how he rereads them every few months because he's so afraid of forgetting one word written by his friend; he just smiled and said, “Best read I’ve had in my life old boy.”

     When it was time to eat Sherlock showed off cooking skills he had had to learn out of necessity. John was impressed.

     For days all they did was catch up on each other’s lives, talking and laughing and being just so glad they were back in each other’s lives. For the first time in decades, Sherlock Holmes felt happy and whole and like he could do anything and everything would be alright.

     Mycroft showed up the second month Sherlock was there, looking very put-out and annoyed and like he was wondering why he put up with this.

     “Eleven years.” Was all the government official said.

     Sherlock shrugged, unapologetic, and moved, “If you’re coming in, be quiet. John is sleeping upstairs.”

     Mycroft nodded and came in, removing his hat and coat and keeping his cane as Sherlock led him into the living room.

     “I suspect he is. I knew you would show up sooner or later Shirley.” He sat down in one of the arm chairs, “I suspect you know then.”

     Sherlock ignored Mycroft and poured himself a drink, because, yes, he did know. He knew John was sick and had barely a year to live. That wasn’t why he had come back though, there was a much simpler reason for that. John had been the one to tell Sherlock he was sick and the time limit. That didn’t mean he was going to talk about it with Mycroft though.

     “Are you here for any particular reason Mycroft or just being a nuisance?”

     “I’m just here to catch up Shirley.”

     That, Sherlock could talk about; the past was fine to think and talk aloud about, it was the future that terrified him.

  
     So they spoke and when John came down(still looking a bit tired), they all shared a drink and a cigar.

     The months passed, with Sherlock just being there with John; Sherlock taking care of him and watching over him. It was such a reversal of roles. Sherlock didn’t mind, he figured it was long over due. It was months filled with peace and happiness and laughter(something he hadn’t done in decades) and just a general feeling of rightness.

     Then one morning, almost a whole year since he’d first gotten there, Sherlock woke up, listened to the quiet of the house and a city still asleep and somehow just knew. He got ready as usual though; washed up, got dressed, made his bed and started the coffee. He had to see, just so he knew for sure, because Sherlock new he was a paranoid man. So he walked up the steps, taking his time, it’s not like there was any need to rush. He knocked before entering.

     Truth be told, it was foolish and wishful thinking to hope it was only his paranoia, because it was horribly obvious the great age of Watson and Holmes was over.

* * *

     He called Mycroft, because he knew the man would take care of every detail that had to be handled. Mycroft came and he did indeed take care of everything; he planned the funeral, and made sure he could stay in the house and made sure his brother ate. After it was all done and taken care of and Sherlock was alone in the house that was supposed to be home, he just didn’t know.

     For what seemed to be the first time, Sherlock Holmes didn’t know what to do. So, he sat down in John’s study and, clutching the doctor’s cane, drank and just kept drinking until night came and then he drank until the sun came up.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you people enjoyed the first chapter and will tune in next time when chapter come strolling along. Please feel free to leave a comment(whether it be fluff or constructive criticism--I welcome it and thoroughly enjoy both) or give a kudos. This was my first posting on this site and I'm kind of in a giddy mood right now lol. Happy Reading peoples!  
> Truly yours  
> ~Dr_SKL


	2. Sherlock Becomes Anthony

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Late Christmas!!! I meant to post this by the 25th, but, you know, it was Christmas and then it was boxing day and now it's the 27th at 11:58 PM and... Here's CHAPTER TWO!! Finally! Yay! I hope you guys enjoy it. :)  
> I want to thank everybody who reviewed the first chapter of this story, you guys are amazing and I appreciate your thoughts so much and hope this chapter does not disappoint you. A thousand thanks too for all the people who left Kudos, you rock and I kind of want to hug all of you.  
> Happy Reading!

It was hard, it was so bloody, fucking hard.

He woke up each day wherever he had passed out the night before and, if he remembered, ate something before he began drinking again. Mycroft dropped by periodically to check on him, make him eat something, try to pull him into conversation and brought by cases to try and entice him into work. The cases were tempting, because his mind was begging for stimulation, but the drinking mostly kept that at bay. He couldn't remember how he had ever solved a case before Watson.

Mycroft left his brother grieve and just kept watch over him and, on a more interested note, kept watch over one Howard Stark, his very own nephew. The boy went into weapons business and quickly became a success and, according to his many underground and overseas contacts, was playing a big part in the war. Apparently the young man was something of a genius. No surprise.

The war was a nasty business and there were endless meetings about it. One topic was brought up that interested him greatly; America had a super soldier. He took files with him when he went to visit Sherlock. Maybe there was something to this.

He found something very wrong though when he walked into the house Sherlock had spent his best friends last few months wit him in. Sherlock was sitting cross-legged, in his underwear, in the middle of the living room floor, drinking from the bottle. There was Watson's sword-stick laid out before Sherlock, unsheathed. Blood covered him, most of it already dried and crusty.

Mycroft stood still, refusing to let himself shake. His vision was narrowing slightly, so he closed his eyes, breathed deeply and let the light-headedness pass, before he removed his hat and placed his umbrella down. "Oh Shirley, what have you done?"

Sherlock laughed and it was a very dead sound.

Mycroft took care of him, because he would always take care of his little brother, no matter the consequence.

It would've been a battle to move the man out of the place, but all he did was wait until Sherlock had passed out and then he took the man to his manor. It was easy to carry him, he had lost a lot of weight. Taking care of Sherlock Holmes was an on-going war that only two people had ever truly come close to winning and one of them was long dead.

John Watson had indeed been a great man and caring about Sherlock Holmes had only been one of the many reasons that was so.

Mycroft wouldn't pretend to know how his brother was feeling over the loss of such a man. Mycroft had only ever had Sherlock. Sherlock and the job.

So he kept his brother eating and from harming himself and tried to get him interested in problem solving and his deductions again. he hid the alcohol and when that proved to be futile, just stopped purchasing the drinks altogether.

It was two years after the war that Mycroft came home from an extended trip overseas to find Sherlock reading over a box of cold cases he had left to tempt his brother before he had left.

Mycroft had had to take a moment to himself in his study to just let the relief and shakiness work their way through him.

Let him drown himself in the cases for a while and then Mycroft would get him our in the world again and after all that he would bring out the research he had put away for a while and see about finally bringing his brother and himself some peace.

Forty-three years later, Mycroft came across a bit of interesting news. Howard and Maria Stark had welcomed a baby boy into he world. They named him Anthony.

He brought it up to Sherlock that evening when he got home and the hunch Mycroft had about telling his brother that little bit of news was correct. Upon hearing the news that he was a grandfather, Sherlock had a slight panic attack. There was a little boy out there that would grow up, have children of his own and they would all die. meanwhile, Sherlock would still be here, still the same as he was in 1891, with only Mycroft remaining the same.

He only had Mycroft left.

That cleared his head. His breathing calmed and he wiped his face before turning on the tap and splashing cold water on his face.

Mycroft, he knew, wasn't exactly torn-up about their condition, but he wasn't ecstatic about it either. If they found a way to reverse it Mycroft would want it. It was simple really, Mycroft believed in rules and what they were and how they were wasn't supposed to work.

If he remembered correctly, the books and their notes were in Mycroft's study.

Time to work.

* * *

It was his fault really, but he had made a breakthrough and it was just so exciting, he couldn't wait for Mycroft to get home. magic was a really complicated mess of spell work that was difficult to decipher, even with decades of learning under his belt.

All in all though, it would sort of be categorized as a cure...maybe.

There was just one, rather large side-effect. Or small... depending on how you chose to look at it.

He flexed his fingers and looked down at his body, a body that had suddenly become too small for the clothes that had been worn.

Mycroft was going to be pissed.

And when Mycroft did finally get home, Sherlock had already cleaned up the study and tried his best to fit the clothes he currently had on his, now alarmingly, smaller frame. Now he was just sitting in the den, waiting for the inevitable storm, surprisingly though, that's not what happened when his brother walked through the door. Instead of yelling and swearing and the angry disappointment, what happened instead of this; Mycroft walked into the den, took one good look at his brother and sighed wearily before saying, "Only you Shirley, only you." Then he walked out of the den and straight into his office.

Honestly, he was more than a little disappointed there had been no snit.

To get off the chair he had to scoot forward and then jumped off--he had forgotten what a runt he had been at this age, then he grabbed his book, the one he wrote his trials and errors and discoveries in(Mycroft had one too), and headed for his brothers office.

Mycroft was muttering to himself while leaning back in his chair and rubbing his temple. Sherlock's brother had changed over the years, and he wasn't referring to characteristics of Mycroft's personality or anything like that, Mycroft had simply just lost a lot of weight.

He had left one day for two years and had come back to find his brother had decided to imitate a toothpick.

There had been words.

"No comment on this?" Oh ew, he had forgotten how his voice used to sound when he was this young. How annoying it had been. Was.

Mycroft opened his eyes just enough to see him, "There's nothing to say, all we can do is wait to see if there are any side-effects of this little experiment of yours. I take it you've already tested your healing capabilities?"

Yes, he had. He nodded.

"It's the aging I'm worried about." God, he hated his voice. Sign language was a thing, he could learn that.

Mycroft nodded, closing his eyes again, but he wrinkles around Mycroft's eyes gave away the worry he was obviously feeling.

They would figure it out, he had no doubt of this.

* * *

Mycroft was always coming up with plans, even when he didn't need a plan for something he had one under his belt--just in case-- and when he did need a plan, he had several that could be used one after the other in case of failure. Mycroft was good at strategizing, good at putting things in an order that made sense and could later be used to his utmost advantage. Keeping track of one Howard Stark and family, while it was something that he had done because the man was his own nephew and his own blood, was also something that he had done 'just in case'. Even though he hadn't come up with a scenario in which he would need the knowledge of what Howards personal life was like, that didn't mean there wouldn't ever be one. So when Mycroft came home from serving Queen and country to his little brother again and he begins planning on how he is gong to keep Shirley out of trouble, what immediately first comes to mind is the last thing he had read about the nephew he had never met.

Just four months ago, one Anthony Edward Stark had gone missing and there was no trace of his whereabouts anywhere.

Mycroft began to do what he did best. Get his brother out of bad situations.

* * *

The boy was dead, Mycroft found out and instead of giving any of them time to grieve about it, Mycroft had one Isaac Stark's death certificate forged and--after consulting with Shirley about the plan and spending hours convincing the minified ex-consultant detective that this was indeed the best course of action to take--having Anthony Edward Stark 'found' by a police officer in a randomly picked city known for it's child trafficking(people would assume and in this instance it was best to have them draw their own conclusion) with amnesia. There was no need to let Howard know. There was no need to let anyone know other than Mycroft and Sherlock themselves. Besides, if Sherlock didn't age at all like they were expecting then they could just have him 'disappear'.

So Sherlock Holmes became Anthony Edward Stark and life went on for the brothers.

Mycroft does take a while to get used to the idea of his little(vulnerable) brother being a whole other country away though, out of his immediate reach. In a country that is across an ocean. Placed with a family that was rich and well-known and a target for possible kidnapping attempts by people who were dangerous and were not afraid of maiming a child. So Mycroft ended up having a scotch or two after his brother was safely placed with Howard and Maria Stark. It was just one. Or two. A night. No biggie.

The newly deemed Tony--as he insisted being called from then on, because being called Anthony at every turn by these people that were raising him like a son that they thought he was and he very clearly wasn't felt wrong--did indeed end up learning sign language and used it exclusively after he had it mastered. Howard--his 'father' who was actually his own son that he had raised from a young age... he tried not to think about it too much--kept calling him Anthony regardless of his wishes and only gave into the need to learn sign language when five months went by and Maria, or Jarvis, had to translate for him any time he wanted to have a conversation with his 'son'.

Being Tony Stark, he learned how to channel his minds need for constant stimulation by other means and he had to admit working on engines and circuit boards was actually a nice change of pace. Though he kept bugging Mycroft to send him cold cases to work on when the itch just wouldn't go away. He became the young genius heir to Stark Industries and proved upon many occasions.

Also, being Tony Stark, he became close to people in a way he had never really been at that age growing up the first time around. Maria doted on him like a mother should and it was nothing like being raised by the nannies his parents had left Mycroft and him with. Maria acted like a MOTHER in every sense that the word was ever meant for and he hardly knew what to do with it, so the fact that he kept silent most of the time was a blessing for those many instances that she would brush his hair away from his face and kiss his forehead and whisper, "Love you babino". He also learned Italian. Which was, apparently, a language he had never bothered learning before, as Sherlock.

Another person that ended up meaning a lot to him growing up as Tony Stark was Jarvis, the family butler. The man was just... He had no way of describing what Jarvis was like, because there was a word that Tony could associate with why Maris did everything she did, but there wasn't one for Jarvis. The man was just always there when he found himself needing someone. Jarvis would be up when he would wander downstairs with nightmares of lost friends and lost loves with warm milk and honey that tasted like it was heaven itself stuffed in the cup. Jarvis would also be there for when he needed to be around somebody and not talk.

Maria and Jarvis were two people that he found himself caring for on the same level that before he had only ever placed John and Irene(and Mycroft though he would never let that be known anywhere but the privacy and safety of his own mind).

Growing up as Anthony Edward Stark, or just Tony as he ended up being called, he became almost solely interested in subjects he had only dabbled in previously. Howard taught him things that he hadn't previously considered important while he was going through the years trying to forget and the they years he was researching ways to end the long existence that had become his life. Magic was just something that had distracted him from things like the creation of the phone and television and all those things that involved electricity and wires and chips. How he had been so distracted for years that he had missed the transmission from gas lamps to light bulbs, he had no earthy clue.

Then he turned 'fourteen', for the second bloody fucking time and graduated high school.

Going to MIT had been a decision that Mycroft had unsubtly pushed him onto(to be truthful though it had been a different university closer to where Mycroft himself was busy running the English Government) because most of their secret conversations consisted of him complaining how bored he was. High School had been a joke; the argument that had occurred between him and the elder Holmes about that had been one of their loudest ones. He was sure he would regret the decision to go to university, just like he had regretted, and consequently blamed Mycroft for, going to the hell hole that was where society trapped their teenage offspring for eight hours of the day.

Then he met a man with dreams of flying in the skies and serving his country named James Rupert Rhodes and magically(and by that he meant months went by of bothering the man and being bothered in return--although it was mostly the former) James became Rhodey and Tony had made a friend for the first time since John Watson. Only that man had come to him when he had come home from already fighting for Queen and Country; Rhodey would be a friend he had to watch go away and only see sparingly. John had been someone that had just been there and the only reasons he hadn't been was because he hadn't net the man yet and then because he had left to keep his best friend safe. Long story made short, he never actively tried to talk Rhodey out of following his dreams(even though the man was already a part of the air force and was only gaining his much needed education to do the job), there were a lot of printed articles about death rates and horror stories slipped into the man's notes and under his blankets and pillows. Rhodey never acknowledged them. He never acknowledged that Rhodey never acknowledged them and their friendship just became this big thing that he never thought he would have again. It did great wonders of distracting  him from the fact that he was going through fucking puberty for the second goddamned time.

* * *

He had a dorm of his own, but Rhodey's dorm room was more convenient and had more room in it for sleeping and most of the time there was actual food in the fridge and cupboards. There was also a lot of coffee and the coffeemaker always worked. He invented it all on his own and used it every day... all day. Rhodey had no idea how to work it and every commercial coffee machine he bought that he _could_ work, ended up mysteriously gone. After building that motorized vehicle, he never really thought that he would be one for building things, inventing machines at all, but as Tony, that was what his whole existence had been about. To be fair though, that last couple centuries had been more about experimenting with the magical forces of the universe. He thought that was a good enough excuse.

He quite liked it all.

(Plus, it was something Mycroft had no real idea about and had never pursued studies in and knowing stuff his older brother didn't made him feel smug.)

* * *

Growing up all over again with your won as your father was a very awkward situation all around and he wasn't sure if it made it all the worse because Howard was not aware that Tony was Isaac Stark and consequently one Sherlock Holmes. (He still had all the first editions of those books, they were stored somewhere out of sight and out of mind; it still hurt). Sometimes, he would just be sitting somewhere, classroom, library, dorm room, party(he had begun drinking again and as a result Rhodey was giving many lectures), and the thought would just pop into his head, 'I'm my own grandfather/grandson' or, 'my son is my father', or the most depressing one of all that usually _started_ the drinking, 'John would have liked this'. Bring drunk--when he finally managed to reach that stage--helped a lot. Although he had no illusions that Mycroft would have very snide remarks to say about this and passive-aggressively argue him to sobriety. The endpoint of it all was he only had three people he felt close to that came close to Watson's(previous) place in his life and a few months after he turned nineteen one of them died.

* * *

There was something wrong with the code and he wasn't sure what it was. The goddamned zeroes and ones weren't doing what they were supposed to be doing. Which is why he was currently on the phone with his very own Rhodey-Bear and arguing over the design. If there was ever a conversation topic that was a prelude to civil war...

"Tony, you're the one that called and asked for my help."

"I called and asked for your help because I thought you would provide me with _helpful_ advice Rhodey. Not he complete-" rubbish, was what wanted to come out and what he almost ended up saying, "-garbage that you have provided me with."

A weary sigh on the other end of the line, "When was the last time you slept?"

"Sleep is for the weak." His eyes scanned quickly as he went down the page. Maybe if he just... but that would... maybe...

"Closing on three days then. Tony, turn off the screen and go to sleep."

"You are not the boss of me.

"You're right. I'm not."

"Damn straight."

"Go to bed and get some sleep and call me back when you wake up and you can walk me through everything and we'll figure out what's missing."

Tony glared at the screen, displeased with what he was seeing--they were bloody annoying these screens and needed to not be screens... which was an idea and would become his next project, but for now, he put it aside in his mind and focused back on his current bane. The conversation wasn't doing anything to sweeten his mood either. Blackmail was only okay when he was the one initiating it.

"I do not need your help."

"Which is why you called me."

He tapped his fingers rapidly against the mouse, trying to think his way out of this, or at least think of some argument that would convince Rhodey why his way was the way to go, but nothing was forthcoming and he knew any argument would just be shot down. Because he knew Rhodey, so he knew how stubborn the man could be when it came to anything that had to do with his health and the lengths Rhodey would go to ensure its continued stability. Maybe he could just hang up. Except, he didn't want to. Rhodey's help would be greatly appreciated and he had called the man first. He was so close though, he could feel it and he hated leaving anything unfinished. If you weren't going to finish it why would you even start it in the first place? It made no sense!

"Tony."

He chewed on his fingernail, looking over at the empty coffee machine, "What? Have something productive to supply to the problem?"

"Tony, you're just taking a break. Sleep, rest, lay your head down and close your eyes. Call me when you wake and we'll go over everything."

...Why did Rhodey have to sound so reasonable? He hated that about him.

"You'll answer?"

"I'm free all weekend, I've got the time Tony. Sleep."

"Maybe just a few hours."

"Like I said, a break won't disrupt you're precious universe."

"That is not what you said."

"Tony."

He groaned and rubbed his hands over his face roughly, sitting back, forcing the numbers and letters onscreen out of his mind for the moment and, face still covered, got up and made his way back to his bed.

"Fine. You better answer on the first ring."

"Cross my heart. Night Tones."

"Hmph!"

He didn't even remember hanging up the phone, or falling into bed, or closing his eyes. One moment he was staring at the wall his bed was pushed up against and the next he was opening his eyes to the _ceiling_ above his bed, wondering what had woken him when his body was still heavy and his eyelids kept falling back down. Then the ringing broke through whatever magical barrier covered a persons ears when they have just woken up and can fall right back to sleep and he pushed his eyes wide open.

"Phone." Was what was supposed to come out, as he stumbled out of bed and to where he dropped his phone before he had--collapsed? passed out?--fallen asleep and went to answer it. What came out instead was some sort of sound that probably belonged to some creature in some far off universe that he would never visit. He picked it up and put it to his ear, "Hello." He think he said, should have said, if it came out right. It rang right into his ear. He shrieked and threw it away. It continued to ring. Swearing, this time, he remembered to press the button before putting the goddamned device to his precious ear and mumbling something that--possibly--sounded like some form of greeting... in some far off galaxy.

"Tony, my boy."

"Obie?"

"I am so sorry Tony, but I think you should sit down."

"Why? Obie, why are you calling me? What? Sit down? Sit down where?" He got up and fell back onto his bed, where the hell was he supposed to sit down when he couldn't even stand properly? Why was he awake? He closed his eyes and threw his arm over his eyes, falling asleep wouldn't be too bad right? Rhodey had told him to got to sleep and everything.

"Because, Tony... I am so sorry to tell you this son, but your parents got into a car accident last night-"

Wait.

"-their car crashed into a tree and-"

No wait stop, what was-

"-neither of them made it."

What?

"They're dead Tony. You're parents are dead."


End file.
